


(blink)

by thuvia ptarth (thuviaptarth)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Lazarus Rising, M/M, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-09
Updated: 2008-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-03 04:38:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thuviaptarth/pseuds/thuvia%20ptarth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A blink is so long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(blink)

A blink is so long. Time enough to see the world as humans do, shattered by light; time enough to see it true. You forget, unbodied, what human existence is like: the sun blinds your eyes and burns your skin, the air chokes your lungs, the earth drags your whole body down, down, down. You blink: world fringed by eyelashes, the faint blur of nose, the blind spot humans don't see that they don't see. Chafe of cloth against skin, rasp of air in throat. Dean Winchester, burning holy, burning; blink, and the beauty hurts you, physical beauty, curve of lips and cut of bone, a shape anyone could inhabit, all humans ever see. Blink, and it's the true beauty, burning; blink, and it's the false, a different burn.

You destroy this vessel every instant you're in it; you repair it a thousand times an instant, a million times a blink. Cells die and regenerate, something from nothing, life from death. Gravity has weight. The air smells of blood, sweat, skin, cotton-rayon blend, chalk, paint, rust, and dirt. Dean Winchester's eyes are black in the darkness. Dean Winchester's eyes are green. Dean Winchester's mouth is soft beneath your curious fingertips, your fingers (not your fingers) tracing the shape of his lips, the wet roughness or rough wetness of his tongue, the flat smoothness of his teeth. Dean Winchester is staring at you, terrified, mesmerized. Gravity has weight, and it pulls your body (not your body) down. Dean Winchester's eyes are green. You can still see them out of the corner of your eyes (not your eyes) when you kiss him: an arc of green around a slice of black. Feathery lashes. His skin is pitted and pored this close up, even human eyes can see it: a smear of dirt, a pimple, an uneven scrape of red on peachy white. This close up human skin is imperfect, like everything in this world.

This close up heat spills out of Dean Winchester's skin like light. Dean Winchester closes his eyes and you close your hands around his biceps, a familiar grip, even if before you used your true hands, not these hands. You want him to look up at you like that again. You want his head bent back and his throat exposed and his bloodshot darkening eyes half-closed; you want his submission and his gratitude and his love, his pliancy and his looseness under you, light slipping out every which way as he murmurs too soft for human ears to hear, _Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam._

A blink is so long. With his eyes closed, through the film of his eyelids, Dean Winchester can see your true self and bleed. With his eyes open, Dean Winchester forgets what he's seen. Humans are like this. You knew, but without bodies it's impossible to know.

_Sam,_ Dean Winchester screamed, until he forgot names to scream. You healed the forgetting like you healed the other damages, all the damages you were ordered to heal. A blink is long enough to heal a body and most of a soul; a blink is long enough to be trapped in Hell, screaming. Dean Winchester passes from one world to the next a thousand times an instant, a million times a blink, and so do you. So do you.


End file.
